


Bundling Against the Cold

by distant_rose



Series: Ro Writes Canon...Somewhat [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Blankets, Captain Swan January Joy, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Killian Jones is a human furnance, Mild Hurt/Comfort, and a ton of socks, dealing with past traumas, some snuggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-20 03:26:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17614529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distant_rose/pseuds/distant_rose
Summary: Though life is good at the moment, but for Emma Swan, it hasn’t always been. Trauma tends to form scars in different ways and a coping mechanism of hers comes to light when unloading her possessions from the Bug - an absurdly large mountain of blankets.





	Bundling Against the Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Hi lovelies, it’s been awhile. I’m slowly but surely coming back from the dead. It’s a process. Anyway, hopefully this story will relaunch my productivity for writing. I’ve been sorely lacking in that department. Anyway, this is my submission for Captain Swan January Joy. Apologies for how short it is but I hope you enjoy it anyway. A special thank you to shireness for constantly dealing with my absurdity.

Emma has always had a contentious relationship with winter. Though she’s no longer a lost girl on the streets, she still remembers the cold nights of her teenage years when she wrapped herself in ratty blankets and cardboard, trying to keep the chill from seeping into her bones. The numbness in her fingers and toes, the clattering of her teeth and the fear of possibly dying alone in her sleep has stayed with her and she doubts they will ever leave; tattooed traumas embedded on her heart that no one sees but she’s very much aware of them.

Her fear of the cold is the reason the Bug is full of blankets.

They’re the one item that Emma refuses to leave behind and always buys regardless of the absurd pile up. She has one for every place she’s lived; a fleece throw blanket with a coyote on it from Phoenix, an old patchwork quilt from Albuquerque, a faux fur leopard print from St. Louis and a frayed overused green basketweave throw from Tallahassee. She even has a stained and beaten up Bruins blanket from her stint in Boston despite her distinct lack of interest in the sport.

It’s not until she pulls all of her blankets out to bring them into the house that she realizes just how many she has. It takes three trips between Killian, Henry and herself to get them all in and she’s left with a crooked motley mountain on her coffee table. Her son stares at the giant pile in incredulity. It’s nearly as tall as he is.

“Wow, Mom. What’s with all the blankets?”

Mortification curls down her spine at the question, unwelcome and unwanted. Even though she’s in a better place, the shame of surviving on the streets and sleeping rough stays with you. It’s not a happy chapter in her life and one she certainly doesn’t want to share with her son. She ducks her head so Henry can’t see the embarrassment burning at her cheeks.

“I just don’t like being cold.”

Killian says nothing, but he brushes his pinkie finger gently against hers. She jumps at the contact, but doesn’t pull away, allowing him to interlace their fingers and giving her hand a small squeeze. She welcomes the touch, his palm warm, rough and calloused against hers. She glances in his direction, almost afraid of what she might see.

Instead of jest or judgment, all she sees is understanding.

A heavy nameless emotion embeds itself in her throat and she doesn’t know what to say, how to respond with the proper extent of her gratefulness. She’s never been good with words, not like him. They often weight heavy and clumsy on her tongue. Instead, she opts to return his squeeze with one of her own, hoping that he can somehow understand what she’s feeling through osmosis. 

He seems to get the message as a crooked smile crosses his lips and the corners of his eyes crinkle. He places a brief kiss on the crown of her head before turning his attention to Henry and asking him about some new game he’s obsessed with. Emma knows he has zero interest in it. Killian’s eyes glaze over as Henry starts a lecture on the intricacies of Magic: the Gathering but he pretends to listen anyway, herding her son into the kitchen and leaving Emma alone with her pile of blankets. As Killian distracts Henry, Emma tries to find a home for all of her blankets, trying her best to spread them out as far as possible in an absurd attempt to disguise just how many she owns and to keep awkward questions to a minimum.

It isn’t until later when Henry is back with Regina that Killian reveals his own personal horde. She’s sitting on the couch, hot chocolate in hand as she mindlessly watched an episode of _Arrested Developmen_ t when Killian places a massive chest on the coffee table in the exact same stop where the mountain of blankets once stood. Despite its size, it connects with a dull, soft thud. It almost sounds hollow to her.

“What’s this?”

“Well, I guess you can say it’s my version of your blankets,” he responds, opening the chest.

Socks.

Hundreds and hundreds of socks of various different colors and patterns. Some were obviously homemade, rough homespun wool with obvious mistakes in the knitting while others look more contemporary. Emma cannot help but snort as she picked up a pair covered in skulls and crossbones, rubbing her thumb over the material.

“That’s quite the collection.”

“When I was a boy, most sailors didn’t wear shoes on ships. If the weather allowed it, we went barefoot most of the time before soles of shoes became more slick resistant. Your feet have natural better grip on deck and when climbing the rigging. Not to mention, feet are better at drying out than shoes when wet,” he said, wetting his lips.

“Okay, I guess I can understand that, so why the socks if you guys weren’t big on shoes?”

“Because I remember the cold, Swan. At night, I often shared a bunk with my brother and more often than not, the blanket wasn’t enough to cover our feet. Winter at sea is hard and there were some nights that my toes nearly went black. It’s a sensation I never wanted to feel again, so whenever I had coin, I would spend it on socks…”

“You’re afraid of the cold.”

“Of course, I am. Only those who have lived in comfort don’t.”

Emma drops the socks back into the chest before pushing herself up off the couch and crossing the distance between them. Killian closes his eyes as her fingers trace the length of his cheekbone, pulling her close with his truncated arm and resting his forehead against hers.

“You don’t live on a ship anymore. You live in a house with a decently sized furnace.”

“And you don’t live on the streets anymore, but you know as well as I do that scars tend to linger…”

He’s right and she knows it. The mountain of blankets and the chest full of socks are coping mechanisms, leftover evidence of their past just as tangible as any scar. That doesn’t stop her from wincing at his words however. She can’t think of anything appropriate to say in response. So Emma does what she does best and decides to make a joke, reeling away from the intimacy of the conversation.

“Am I allowed to steal a pair or two from your secret sock chest?”

 “What’s mine is yours, of course,” he chuckles in response. “As long as I’m allowed to have a few blankets.”

“Absolutely not, you’re not allowed to touch any of my twenty billion blankets. They’re mine and I totally need all of them at once and can’t spare you one.”

“Greedy,” he teases.

“Okay, maybe you have just one…” 

“Just one? Out of your self-professed twenty billion? My, my, my. So generous.”

“If you’re going to complain, I’m going to revoke your privileges.”

He takes some of her blankets anyway. It’s all fair and good because sometimes his socks mysteriously end up on her feet.

Emma doesn’t think about the cold much anymore. It’s easier to handle such thoughts when she has Killian, Henry and her parents now to guide and bring light, love and laughter into her life. When life is good, the hurts hurt a little less.

But that doesn’t necessarily mean they disappear.

It’s a bitter night in late January when her thoughts turn back in time to the fears of her youth. It’s colder than it has been for a while, too cold to start the Bug and thus leaving Emma to walk through the abandoned streets of Storybrooke by herself in the dark. The air is biting, attacking her exposed skin without impunity and seeping into her body. Despite the woolen hat pulled over her ears, they feel numb and she regrets putting in earrings this morning as the cold metal irritates her skin.

Streets are dark, the lamps dull and virtually useless in the winter night. It reminds her too much of the alleys she took refuge in, hiding behind dumpsters, hoping that no one would find her and at the same time also hoping that someone would. She remembers the ratty gloves she wore and how she would tear the holes and frayed edges anxiously, waiting for something to happen; alert, tired and too afraid to fall asleep.

Killian is standing on the porch waiting for her when she arrives home. His smile falters upon catching the expression on her face as she walks into the light. She can tell he wants to say something, but he holds his tongue as he leads her into the house. His hand reaches for hers and it almost burns at the touch, as if the winter chill had made her bones too brittle to handle such heat.

After taking off her jacket and hat, he forces her to sit down in their living room, muttering to himself as he picks up three blankets, the ones she took from Phoenix, St. Louis and Boston, from the woven wicker basket her mother gifted them and starts bundling her. She almost wants to laugh at him for being such a mother hen, but she’s too cold to do anything more than chatter her teeth. He places a brief kiss on her forehead before turning on his heel and leaving the room.

“Where are you going?”

“To get more blankets!” he responds, not even bothering to look back as he ascends up the stairs. “Don’t move.”

Emma rolls her eyes but nonetheless obeys, not because he asks but more because there’s an episode of _A Discovery of Witches_ playing on her television and it’s one she hasn’t seen, thus confirming her theory that he’s been cheating and watching ahead without her on his nights off.

When Killian returns, this time she does laugh since it seems like he’s grabbed nearly every blanket in the house. He gives her an unimpressed look as he drops the blankets down next to the couch. 

“It’s bad form to laugh at a man who is doing something nice for you, love.”

“I can’t help it, you’re cute.”

“I disagree. I’m an absolutely vicious and ruthless terror of the high seas.”

“Who is also very cute and very sweet,” she replies with a small smile. “ I absolutely love you though, so that’s okay.”

“I would hope you love me since you married me after all.”

“I married you for your ship, so I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she teases.

“Well, that’s a pity because I only share my socks with women who love me.”

He pulls out a pair of socks – the skull and crossbones pair that she pulled out of his chest on the day he revealed his weird sock obsession with her. Without even thinking, Emma snatches the socks out of his hand and hugs them to her chest.

“Pirate,” he laughs with delight.

“I learned from the best,” she replies, leaning forward and kissing his nose.

He settles down next to her as she pulls on his socks, throwing all of the blankets of top of them both. It’s an absurd number of them and Emma feels like there’s half a foot of wool, cotton and fleece on top of her.

“Do you want to watch this or something else?” he asks, pulling her to his side and playing with her hair.

“Well, considering you seem to be a few episodes ahead me, cheater, it might be best to put something else on.”

He rolls his eyes but relents nonetheless by putting on an early episode of _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_. Emma buries her head in the crook of his shoulder, warm and content despite the bitter cold outside. Her body relaxes, exhaustion from a long day of fielding complaints settles in and she barely notices as her eyelids grew heavy. She’s halfway through a Halloween Heist episode when she falls asleep, snoring quietly into Killian’s neck.

She wakes up a few hours later, disorientated, boiling hot and still on the couch. Killian is conked out beside her, his head thrown back and mouth wide open. Not even caring, she kicks off a good number of blankets and settles back in to sleep.

Who needs blankets when you have a Killian?


End file.
